


Something Wicked (a Downton Abbey/Hocus Pocus crossover)

by esteoflorien



Category: Downton Abbey, Hocus Pocus (1993)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-31
Updated: 2013-10-31
Packaged: 2017-12-31 02:34:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1026255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteoflorien/pseuds/esteoflorien
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Halloween, young Cora Levinson lights a candle in the forbidden corridor of Downton Abbey. To her horror, its flame is black. A Downton Abbey/Hocus Pocus crossover fic for Halloween, with a tiny bit of Doctor Who thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Wicked (a Downton Abbey/Hocus Pocus crossover)

If she was going to be the mistress of Downton Abbey one day, Cora decided – and it certainly seemed as if she would, since her mother’s enthusiasm for a tiara was matched by Lord Grantham’s eagerness for her money – she couldn’t see why Lady Grantham had explicitly barred her from half of the house. Granted, the corridor on the third floor wasn’t exactly _half_ of the house, but if her fortune was going to rescue Downton Abbey, then she certainly wanted to have seen it all.

The upstairs hallway was not well lit, but Cora pressed on. She was a grown woman now, and entirely unafraid of the dark, or the many things which might be hiding in it – even if it was Halloween.

She went in and out of several rooms, empty but for cloth-covered furniture. It would be fun, she thought, to resurrect some of them when it was her turn to decorate Downton Abbey.

The final room at the end of the hallway was locked, but that hardly stopped her. She slipped a pin from her hair and jiggled it round in the lock, surprised when it easily came free.

The room was small, and lacked windows. It was as if she had stepped back in time, and she wished she could see just a bit better. Almost on cue, she tripped over her skirts, steadying herself on the table. She felt around, and sure enough, found some matches. She struck one, and held it aloft so she could see. The walls were covered in heavy fabric, and there were three beds set against the far walls. The room was covered in a thick layer of dust. Cora sneezed, and wiped her hand on her dress. Her matched burned out just as she spied a tall bookshelf. She licked her fingers and touched the tip of the match to be sure it was out before she tossed it aside and struck another one. This time, she was more sensible about it, and when she spied a candle in the far corner of the room, she ran to it to share the light of her match.

She lit the candle and jumped back. The flame, which first burst in bright orange, burned a cool, flickering black.

Immediately, she tried to blow it out. When that didn’t work, she stepped backwards – and bumped directly into a short, stout woman.

Cora screamed.

She pushed past the older woman, only to find her path blocked by two more: a younger, pretty blonde woman, and a much older and angrier redhead.

“You’ve lit the candle!” said the blonde one. “Finally, after all these years!”

“Were you expecting us?” asked the dark-haired lady.

“No,” Cora said, simply.

“Silence!” shouted the redhead. They all turned towards her; the others shrunk back to stand beside her. She must be the leader, Cora decided. She was the one to fear the most.

“You’re not a Crawley witch,” said the redhead. “Do you have any idea who we are?”

“No, madam,” said Cora. “I’m neither a Crawley nor a witch.”

“But you’re a virgin!” exclaimed the blonde one in a sing-song voice. “That’s all that counts.”

Cora blushed. Of course she was a virgin.

“Now then,” said the redhead. “You’re clearly no use to us, yet.” She looked at Cora. “Sit,” she said, and Cora felt herself moved across the room to a dusty chair. She sneezed, but none of the women paid her any mind.

The three women were deep in discussion, mumbling something about a book and a potion. Finally, the redhead barked at her.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” Cora murmured. “It was half eight when I came upstairs. That was a while ago. I left the Halloween party early. Who are you?”

A look of panic crossed the redhead’s face. “You lit the candle on _Halloween_?”

“Yes,” Cora replied.

“Sisters!” the redhead shouted. “Sisters! We have little time. You will make the potion, and I will find the book.”

The redhead began stalking about the room. “Book!” she called. “Book!” A rattling drew her attention. The bookshelf was shaking. Whatever book she was looking for had to be hidden somewhere in that shelf. They descended upon it, tossing books this way and that, and this, Cora decided, was her moment.

She stood up as quietly as she could and slipped out of the room while they were distracted. She ran down the hall as quickly as she could, not even daring to look behind her to see if they were following.

She flew down the staircase only to fall headfirst into Lady Rosamund, who was standing at the landing with Lady Grantham. “I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed. “Though really I’m not! Why did no one tell me about the women in the attic?”

Lady Grantham grabbed her by the shoulder and turned her round to face her. “What women in the attic?”

“The women! The sisters. And there’s a candle, and the book! They have the book! And a potion! They’re a making a potion. Yes.”

“Indeed,” said Lady Grantham.

“I knew you wouldn’t believe me,” Cora said. “But I’m not lying.”

Rosamund smiled gently at her. “We believe you. That was why Mama asked you not to poke around upstairs. Now we have a problem on our hands.”

“Well,” said Lady Grantham with palpable derision, “at least we know she’s a virgin.” Beside her, Lady Rosamund stifled a laugh, and Cora felt her face redden.

“What are we going to do, Mama?” Lady Rosamund said, after a moment.

“Find them,” said Lady Grantham. “Find them, and do what great-grandma Mary should have done years ago: banish them forever!”

On balance, Cora thought, she was thoroughly unsurprised that Lady Grantham was a witch. Perhaps it was her voice, or the fact that she knew _everything_ , or that she seemed perpetually attached to a long-handled pair of opera glasses, even when a trip to the opera was so entirely out of the question. To her horror, she found herself staring at the opera glasses.

“It’s an affectation,” Rosamund said blandly. “Mama doesn’t require a _wand_. Neither do the aunts.” She narrowed her gaze. “Nor do I, for that matter.”

“Aunts?” Cora asked.

“The aunts in the attic!” Rosamund snapped impatiently. “Auntie Winifred is the eldest, Auntie Mary the middle, and Auntie Sarah the youngest.” Her voice was laced with sarcasm every time she said ‘auntie.’ “Of course, I’ve never met them.”

“Ah, yes. I’m very sorry for letting them out,” Cora said. “And I’m very glad you can fix it. I suppose I ought to go to bed.”

“Oh no you don’t!” shouted Lady Grantham. “ _You’re_ coming with us.”

“But why?” Cora asked. She could have kicked herself when she heard the fear trembling in her voice.

“Because, my dear, we need _bait_.”

**~**

It was cold. Cora thought wistfully of her warm traveling cloak, lined as it was with fur, that hung in her dressing room. Beside her, Lady Rosamund had tossed a dress cape over her silk dress, but she showed no signs of being bothered by the chill. _I’ll never fit in here_ , Cora thought mournfully, as Rosamund dragged her around the property. But Rosamund’s hand was warm in her own, and, unthinkingly, she squeezed it. Rosamund looked back at her in surprise before pressing forward. When she squeezed back, Cora smiled. Perhaps Rosamund needed a bit of comfort, too. As they walked, Rosamund told her the story of the witches in the attic: that there was a line of witches in the Crawley women, that there had always been magic around Downton Abbey, that powerful women seemed to find their way to Downton and marry the heirs. Cora had to laugh, at that bit. She was far from powerful, and certainly not a witch: she knew perfectly well, as did Rosamund, that her value to Downton Abbey and to the Crawleys extended as far as her fortune. But perhaps things were different then.  

Rosamund told her of dark days centuries ago, when the three sisters had terrorized the town, when villagers had gone missing whenever they were out on the moors at night, and of how her great-great grandmother had trapped them in the attic to bind away their magic when she realized what was going on. “They’re not really our aunts,” Rosamund confided. “But I suppose it was easier, as time went on, for the Crawley witches to say that there were aunts in the attic rather than evil witches. By the time it got to my grandmother, of course, so much time had passed that no one remembered that great-great-grandmother Crawley had captured the witches and locked them in her attic.”

“I suppose,” Cora said. It did make sense, after all. If word got out that there were evil witches about, and that the Crawley women were witches, it certainly wouldn’t end well for the mistresses of Downton Abbey.

They were silent for several minutes while they traipsed about the grounds following Lady Grantham. Then it occurred to Cora that if Rosamund hadn’t actually ever seen them, she wouldn’t know who was who.

“Just so you know, Winifred is the redhead, Mary a brunette, and Sarah, the blonde.”

Rosamund smiled at her. “Thank you,” she said, after a moment, and even though Cora belatedly realized that Rosamund would have figured it out well enough for herself within seconds of meeting them, as she herself had done, Rosamund seemed genuinely grateful for her thoughtfulness.

Cora hadn’t known what to expect when they’d finally caught up to the aunts on the grounds of the property, just outside the confines of Downton Abbey proper. She had expected a cauldron, perhaps, bubbling away in the light of the full moon, and in this, she was not disappointed. But she had not expected Lady Grantham to step out in front of them, arms raised, ready for battle.

She didn’t require any knowledge of magic to know that they were outmatched. Rosamund had taken it upon herself to protect her, and together, they watched as Lady Grantham traded insults and spells with the aunts. Periodically one of them would lose her ground with the force of it.

“Don’t worry,” Rosamund whispered from their spot in the shadows. “Mama is very powerful.” But Rosamund’s voice was laced with worry, and Cora knew that Lady Grantham alone was no match for the Sanderson sisters.

“The potion’s finished!” screeched the blonde one – _Sarah?_ – and suddenly, Auntie Winnie seemed to forget all about Lady Grantham. She began to stalk towards Cora and Rosamund’s direction, thrusting out her arm as she passed Lady Grantham.

“Take her, sisters!” she shouted. Taken by surprise, Lady Grantham soared through the air, only to be caught in mid-air by the magic of Auntie Sarah and Auntie Mary. She struggled, but above ground, and trapped between the pair of them, she stood no chance.

Rosamund shook Cora’s arm. “Walk very slowly towards the graveyard. Do not stop until you are inside.”

Cora stepped as lightly as she could into the gated cemetery. When she was safely inside, Rosamund straightened up. “You’ll leave her alone, Auntie Winnie!” she called.

“Now now,” Auntie Winnie said, “you’re no match for me, little girl.”

“I’m not,” Rosamund said, surprising Cora – and Auntie Winnie, if her expression was anything to go by. “We both know I can’t win.”

“Rosamund!” her mother shouted, desperation laced in her voice, but Rosamund paid her no mind. Auntie Winnie continued to advance on her. As she moved closer, the air itself began to crackle. A shiver ran down Cora’s back. This was always how things like this happened in the stories. There were graveyards, witches, fog, full moons, and air that fairly crackled with magic.

_I despise Halloween_ , Cora thought. _When I am mistress of this house, we’ll do away with the wretched holiday once and for all_.

Auntie Winnie had come very close indeed. “Are you joining us then, niece?”

Rosamund raised her head and flicked her wrist. The bottled potion flew out of Winifred’s hand before she had a chance to react, and sailed unperturbed to Cora, landing safely in her lap.

“Never,” Rosamund said, and Cora didn’t have to look at her to know that she was smiling.

The moonlight shone through her hair, lacing the red with silver. The wind whipped around Rosamund’s skirt, the fine silk fluttering and her cape flying behind her. She was beautiful, Cora decided, if they managed their way out of this, she would tell her so.

Winifred’s face twisted. “You _traitor_!” she screamed, and thrust her hands out in Rosamund’s direction. Rosamund went flying, until she careened into a gravestone like a rag doll thrown aside in a fit of pique.

Cora began to move backwards, further into the graveyard. She found a sturdy looking stone and climbed atop it so she could see all around her. Winifred stood, fuming, at the gates of the graveyard; Mary and Sarah were still tossing Lady Grantham in the air between them as if they were playing a game.

“It’s only a matter of time, little girl,” Winifred called. Cora straightened. She was many things, but _not_ a little girl, though she had read enough stories in her childhood to know that witches could not stand on sacred ground. She relaxed a little, and set the potion safely on her lap.  

Winifred had turned her back on her for a moment, but Sarah and Mary seemed to have come closer, dragging Lady Grantham right along with them. Soon, they hovered over the gate; then, they crossed over the gate, flying comfortably above the graveyard. Winifred summoned a broom from the tool shed, and soon she too was airborne. They moved slowly, however, as if they half expected to burst into flames for entering the sacred space.

From her perch, she could see Rosamund quite clearly. She lay crumpled beside a grave marked with a beautiful weeping angel. The angel’s wings were closed tightly around itself, and it hid its face in its hands. It was beautiful. That was something to hold on to, she decided; there were beautiful things, even in the midst of so much fear. She stared at the angel, willing it to come alive and keep Rosamund safe. She looked so tiny against the marble, and there was a trickle of blood spilling from a cut on her eye.

Cora looked back at the aunts. They were approaching more quickly, now, their fears of flying over the graveyard seemingly allayed. She turned her attention back to Rosamund, and to her surprise, it looked as if the angel had moved; now Rosamund was behind it, and the angel’s wings had opened to block Rosamund’s face. Cora had never believed in ghosts or hauntings or things that came alive on Halloween night, and perhaps it was her mind playing tricks on her, but it comforted her to know that something stood between Rosamund and the witches beating a breakneck pace towards her.  

She wasn’t a witch, but she _was_ clever, and she had spent an awful lot of time staring out of her window, wondering if it really was to be her fate to stay here, and so she knew, with utter certainty, that when the uppermost stained glass window on the side of the church began to glow, dawn was not far off. She kept her gaze fixed on the window, then, her hand clutching the potion.

“How sweet!” cackled Auntie Winnie – Cora marveled that Rosamund had called her _Auntie Winnie_ – “She’s found the _church_ and thinks that will help her.”

Cora bristled, but reminded herself that Auntie Winnie had no idea just how the church would help her, and so she kept silent.

The bottom left-hand corner of the window took on a slight glow. She’d never seen it at this angle; she’d only ever see the colors reflected onto the stonework. It was quite lovely, watching the window come alive as the sun began to rise. Soon the bit of blue was joined by a larger swathe of glowing green – a pretty, deep shade, not the sickly color of the potion in her hand.

The blonde one had started singing again. She was like a siren; it sounded lovely, but Cora knew her song was shot through with danger. She heard the snap of a twig behind her, and from the direction of the village she saw a little girl walking slowly towards Downton. She was soon joined by an older boy, and a pair of twins holding hands.

_So this is what they want_ , Cora realized, watching the children advance trancelike in her direction. There was no way around it now. She’d have to stop the aunts. Lady Grantham was still caught between Auntie Sarah and Auntie Mary. As a woman who’d always looked so formidable, it was utterly disconcerting to see her this powerless.  

A bit of red joined the blue and the green. Cora looked behind her; sure enough, there was a bit of light cutting through the mist. She looked at Winifred and drank the potion.

“I’ve done it!” she cried, throwing the bottle to the ground. “Look, I’ve done it! Leave her alone!”

Mary and Sarah let Lady Grantham go, and turned to speed towards Winifred, but, lower than Winifred, they caught the first rays of the sun where she did not. Lady Grantham looked up in shock as they crumbled into dust. Cora smiled. That was two of them, gone.

Lady Grantham looked at her, but she nodded towards Rosamund. The older woman bent over her daughter, her hand cupped gently around Rosamund’s temple. Cora watched the pair of them, and closed her eyes, her own mother’s image floating before her. She looked back at Lady Grantham and her daughter; the angel looked as if it had moved closer. Behind her, she heard Winifred’s cackle.

Cora waited, her eyes shut. It would be easier, she imagined, to not see anything, to not know when they caught up to her, and when they finally killed her. She thought about the village children on the road, and hoped it had been enough to save them, and comforted herself with the knowledge that at least Rosamund had her mother to see her. Rosamund’s angel seemed to have come even closer in the interim, and she could only hope that it would keep Rosamund safe. She stared at the angel – _were there really angels in heaven?_ – and felt a rush of wind at her back, before toppling off her perch on the gravestone as Winifred approached, closing her eyes as she fell hard onto the wet earth.

**~**

“Is she all right, Lady Grantham?” said a high voice she didn’t recognize. “What was she doing up there, anyway?”

“That’s enough, children!” snapped Lady Grantham. “If you go directly home, I’m sure Mr. Molesley here will not find it necessary to inform your parents that you were sneaking about the graveyard on Halloween night!”

Cora opened her eyes to see the older boy peering worriedly over her. He looked younger than he had when she’d seen him come walking out of the mist. The first girl she had seen had taken the twins by the hand.

“And you, Mr. Mason,” Lady Grantham continued, “I shall come and pay your parents a visit. We are very grateful that you came to Miss Levinson’s aid.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the boy said, straightening up. “I’ll see the others home.”

“Good night,” Lady Grantham murmured, turning her attention back to Cora. “That was a very brave and foolhardy thing to do, Miss Levinson.”

“I’m sorry,” Cora offered, but it was hard to sound contrite when it seemed that she had finally won a bit of this woman’s respect. Lady Grantham dabbed a handkerchief around her face.

“You’ll be fine,” Lady Grantham said, standing. She surveyed the graveyard. “Ah, the angels,” she said, cryptically, before turning towards the house.

Rosamund smiled at her, and offered her hand to help her up. She looked a little worse for wear, but her mother had seen to the scrape on her temple. “That was very clever of you,” she said, helping Cora sort out her skirts.

“Thank you,” Cora said, managing to keep the surprise out of her voice.

“You’re welcome,” Rosamund replied, and offered her arm, and together, they walked back towards the house, arm in arm. Lady Grantham waited for them by the doorway, and ran her hand over Cora’s hair, smoothing back the curls.

“You’ll do, my dear,” she said, after a long moment. It was hardly the loving welcome she’d expected to receive from her future husband’s family, whoever they turned out to be, but she smiled, and thanked her, and found that she meant it. 


End file.
